


Whumptober 2019 Good Omens Edition!

by Smurphyse



Series: Whumptober 2019, Good Omens Edition [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Multi, Shaky Hands, Whumptober, whoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 01:17:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20857844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smurphyse/pseuds/Smurphyse
Summary: Day 1: Shaky Hands!Well, since I've been hyperfocused on Good Omens since May, I think it's only fitting that we focus on it even more with Whumptober 2019! This will be smut-free (sad, I know) but it will be angsty as all hell (my specialty)!Enjoy, and please comment! It helps me grow as a writer and any commentary is appreciated! I am thinking of doing Kinktober as well, but I'll skip around because some of those kinks are a bit intense even for me!I've decided to make a new Tumblr for writing prompts! You can follow me under @dustylangdon. Right now I think I'll focus on Good Omens prompts since that's all I think about anyways! Send 'em over and I'll try to write as many as I can! NSFW positive!<3





	Whumptober 2019 Good Omens Edition!

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first prompt: Shaky Hands!  
Enjoy!

It had been since Eden that Crowley’s hands shook like this.

This was a bad idea. Such a stupid, ridiculous, idiotic idea that could only be dreamed up by an absolute moron of an ex-angel. The kind of stupid idea saved only for demons who can’t even fall right, just saunter vaguely downwards.

He clenched his fists tightly, staring down at them as he did his plants, attempting in pitiful vain to terrify them into submission. No use, they disobey him openly, freely admitting to God and the world round that he, Anthony J. Crowley, original tempter of man, snake of the Garden, was purely and simply _afraid_.

The streets of SoHo were busy, people flitting and weaving past him, completely unaware that an occult being was practically _radiating _anxiety in waves. Those who pass him feel a sudden burst of panic, blood pressure rising, hair sticking up on the back of their necks, then calm again as they continue their way. A sense of confusion on their parts will be normal, but for those regular humans who encounter an ethereal (occult) being, the worry soon leaves their minds the further they get from the demon.

His hips do not hold the same sinful waltz they usually do. Crowley hunches over, his body wound tight as he focuses all his willpower on steadying his _goddamned_ hands. The trembling seems to reverberate throughout his scrawny frame, echoing violent ribbons of panicked spasming up his arms and down his spine, the rest of his body clenching frantically for an ounce of stability.

Crowley could not remember in all his six thousand years being as scared as this. He faced down the fucking _devil_ and he was not nearly as terrified then as he was now. His breath ghosts out in front of him, a fog of petrification mocking him as he makes his way to the bookshop; to Aziraphale.

As he comes upon the bookshop the shaking intensifies, his jaw begins to tremble as the panic rears it’s ugly head for the final attack before he collapses in a pile of limbs and wheezing terror. As he comes face to face with it, the demon’s very own personal demon, Crowley looks into the eyes of his fear.

They match his own, staring back at him from the bookshop window, golden pools of burning, unsatiated dread daring him to blink first. He feels himself begin to concede defeat, to back down and turn tail, fleeing back to his flat with the fright of a man with the devil on his heels, when the eyes staring back at him turn blue.

Cerulean blues, eyes so bright they make you feel like the sun itself is shining only for you, crinkle up in a smile. Crowley fixes his gaze, and gladly sees a grinning Aziraphale wave at him through the window, beckoning him inside.

“My dear, I was _just_ thinking about you,” the angel chuckles as Crowley steps through the door, breathing in the familiar scent of aging paper and cologne, _of Aziraphale. _“I found a rather delightful bottle of wine I acquired in Italy. Oh, when was it? I believe sometime around 1890.” Aziraphale wiggled the bottle at Crowley, then set it down on his desk as he looked around for a few glasses for the pair.

Normally, Crowley would have allowed the angel to chatter on until his face turned blue, not that either of them needed to breathe, but he had other plans. Tonight was the night, the night it changed for better or for worse. The night a demon tells an angel he loves him.

“Angel, I-,” The words barely escape Crowley’s throat, strangled by the shaking racking through his body. The angel continued anyway, moving piles of books around as he spoke, hands flitting about for emphasis as he spoke.

“You would have been asleep, of course, you slept for _quite _a long time after our… disagreement. _I_ did some traveling then, and that’s when I befriended a delightful young woman who showed me some wonderful vineyards around Tuscany. Of course, I had been there a few times, but she was just so excited I couldn’t help obliging.”

Crowley tried to pinch the bridge of his nose, his blood beginning to boil in frustration as he scratched himself instead. _Stupid hands._

“My dear, are you cold?” Aziraphale stopped his search to look at him. He must have looked pathetic, standing in the foyer of the bookshop, body pinched and trembling. “You’re shaking like a leaf. Let me get you a blanket.”

“No, angel, ’m fine,” he groaned, feeling stupid for making the angel fuss. Aziraphale flicked his hands, smiling smugly as a fleece white blanket fluttered into his grasp. “Really, don’t go putting that on me, ‘s not a big de- “

“Crowley, you _are _a snake. I know you loathe the cold.” Disregarding Crowley’s protests and wrapping him snugly in the fuzzy monstrosity he dared to call a blanket. He smiled at the demon, giving one last tug to ensure Crowley was tightly swathed.

Aziraphale probably hadn’t noticed, but Crowley was painfully aware of how _close_ Aziraphale was. Their noses almost touched, Aziraphale’s flushed from the heat of the shop, Crowley’s from the cold of the unforgiving London winter. The angel’s eyes flickered to Crowley’s lips for a moment, just one, but long enough for the shaking to leave the demon’s body entirely.

His hands snaked up from his sides, catching Aziraphale’s warm face in a soft embrace. Crowley watched carefully as the angel’s breath hitched, a small gasp leaving him as Crowley gazed longingly into those eyes whose brightness contrasted his own.

The angel didn’t pull away, didn’t tear himself free of Crowley’s grasp as he’d expected him to. They stared at one another for a long moment, breathing heavily in the otherwise stilled quiet of the bookshop, antique volumes the only crowd observing their silent standoff. Crowley’s hands began to shake again, his resolve retreating as quickly as it had come.

Maybe if he pulled away, laughed it off as some silly joke, Aziraphale would elect to forget it. They could move on, pretend it hadn’t happened, much like they had the accidental brush of their hands back in 1942. It had electrified Crowley, given his broken heart a much-needed boost, but they hadn’t spoke of it again.

Instead of pulling away, Aziraphale’s hands reached up to cup Crowley’s own, squeezing them gently as he watched back him. He seemed to give Crowley the shock he needed, because the trembling stilled instantly. His whole body laxed as it usually did, his regular confidence flooded back as he took a deep breath, visualizing it filling him with the sureness of a demon ready to tempt a more than willing partner.

Crowley leaned down and kissed him, lips light as air, just brushing before he pulled back. Eyes frantic, he searched Aziraphale’s face for revulsion, disgust, anger, but he found none. Instead, he looked back at the demon tearfully, face twisted in heartache.

Crowley released him immediately, his whole body quaking with regret. “Shit, angel, I’m sorry,” he begged, “please just forget it. I’ll never do it again, I promise.”

Aziraphale shook his head, tears spilling down his rosy cheeks as Crowley backed away, fighting the urge to cower like a frightened child. The angel began to shake as well, his hands covering his eyes as he wept.

“I’m so sorry, angel, I shouldn’t have. I won’t do it again, please angel, let’s forget it,” he reached out to touch the quivering angel, hovering just short of him, afraid of causing more damage. Six thousand years of careful hands grazing and calculated contact all gone in an instant as Crowley fought back the unrelenting panic that swelled inside his gut, threatening to devour him with wrenching guilt.

“I’ll leave, then. You won’t see me unless you want. I’ll leave you be, angel. I’m sorry.”

He began to back away, hands reaching behind him to grab the doorknob when Aziraphale stretched out and drew Crowley back to him by the blanket still clung around his shoulders, pulling the demon into a deep kiss, their teeth clacking together, Crowley’s hands instinctively wrapping around the angel’s waist.

Aziraphale’s hand laced into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close as Crowley’s shock overcame him. He gawked at Aziraphale; eyes wide. Tentatively, he reached up and wiped away the tears from Aziraphale’s face, his resolve returning as he kissed him back fervently.

When the angel finally pulled away, the tears welled back up in his eyes as he looked at the terrified demon before him. Crowley wiped those tears away too, his eyes still pleading for forgiveness though none was required.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Aziraphale sobbed, his face blotched and wet, his hands still gripping the blanket for dear life, “I don’t ever want you to leave again.”

“Oh,” Crowley whispered, nodding dumbly, “good then. ‘S good, then? That’s good.”

Then Aziraphale began to laugh, a deep belly busting laugh. His hands flew to his stomach as his tear-stained face spattered with happy blush. Crowley stood shell-shocked; hands still held out where the angel’s waist had been.

“I don’t, I don’t understand,” Crowley gulped, his brain still not up for cohesive thought as Aziraphale giggled before him like a child told his first dirty joke.

“My boy,” Aziraphale gasped, heaving and out of breath, laughing harder each time his teary eyes met Crowley’s confused ones, “you came in here all ready to go and you just lost all nerve!”

“Did you really think that after six _thousand_ years of us maintaining a relationship that I wouldn’t want you to kiss me the minute you got the chance to?”

“R-relationship?!” Crowley retorted; shock replaced by outrage.

“Of course, we kept it on the down low, but I always thought we had a rather forbidden romance of sorts over the years, the sort of pining resolved for Jane Austen novels and the like. With the Apocalypse and our respective sides out of the way, I figured we would move on sooner than later. I’ve really enjoyed it, but there’s only so long I’m willing pine before we move on to the fun stuff.”

Crowley’s bottom jaw must’ve hit the floor by now, because he had lost all sense of self from pure outrage, “You said I go to fast!”

Aziraphale tutted at him, “That was in 1967, over fifty years ago. That was a lifetime ago.”

“We don’t have lifetimes, we’re ether-_occult_ beings! For all I knew you wanted to keep this up for another six millennia.”

“Well, I don’t. I don’t want things to be the same as they were before. I, I think I’m ready for change, for something new. I’m ready to go faster. Not too fast, mind you, but a few miles more at a time sounds like quite a lovely journey.”

Just like that, the shaking was gone, long forgotten in the heat of the shop and the warmth emanating from the two beings whose love for one another could heat the whole of London for a few thousand years. Crowley felt his hips lax, the familiar fluidity breathing back into his muscles. The anxiety was still there, as it would always be, but it wasn’t quite as terrifying to look down that hole if Aziraphale was there to hold his hand while he did.

“Fancy a drink?” he asked, miracling two wine glasses in his hand and motioning toward the back room of the shop.

“Oh, you’ve read my mind,” Aziraphale chuckled, holding out his arm for Crowley to take. He took it with a smile and no hesitation.

They walked to the back, both feeling quite at home and warm on this chilly London evening, and content that the first few steps on their new path weren’t as scary so long as they were together.

**Author's Note:**

> Oooh, I had fun writing this! Comment and leave Kudos if you enjoyed, please! It all helps! <3 Send me prompts on my Tumblr! @dustymariewrites


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